The Edge of Forever
by ProWriter11
Summary: Sara returns to Grissom and the reunion is idyllic -- until a vicious serial killer Grissom put on Death Row hunts him down to kill him, and the woman he loves. Definitely GSR and a lot of very real suffering.
1. Chapter 1

Hi, again. I'm back. This is the first fanfic I wrote, not only for CSI, but EVER. It was a situation in which I had a lot of time to kill. A whole lot of time. It was about mid-March. I was away from home, I had my laptop, and I was checking around to see when certain TV shows were coming back after the writers' strike. As I wandered around the CSI Web page, I stumbled on the fan fiction. Since I'm a published novelist, my brother-in-law challenged me to write one. It started as a lark and then got serious. So … here it is. I'll be posting in much larger chunks than I did with Tragedy Squared. This is a longer story.

Oh, yeah, the disclaimers. I own nothing. Well, that's not true. I own my car. My house. My dog and cat … uh, no, actually, my dog and cat own me.

The M rating is for both adult situations and violence.

I look forward to hearing from you.

**xxxxxxx**

**THE EDGE OF FOREVER**

**Chapter 1.**

"Tell me again how you won the twenty-five hundred dollars, Jim," Grissom said, one eyebrow arched in his typical expression of skepticism. He was glad for the chance to tease his friend. He had been wary of serious conversation all night.

"The story's not going to change, Gil. I bought a newspaper, gave the clerk a five, and the half dollar was in the change," Brass said, stopping to let the waiter collect empty plates from Grissom, Catherine and, finally, from him. "I hate change, so I dropped the half-dollar in the big slot on my way out the door. And it hit."

"You know people stand in front of those things and pull the handles all night and get zip," Catherine said. "You take one pull and walk away a big winner."

"Clean living," Brass said with a smile.

Grissom wiped his mouth with his napkin and placed the cloth on the table.

"Nice of you to share the windfall with your friends," he said. "I needed a break from Frank's diner and Chinese takeout."

Brass had dropped by the crime lab on Thursday to tell Grissom about his unexpected winnings and, on a whim, invited Grissom and Catherine to dinner on Saturday night at the Bellagio to celebrate.

"You want to blow it all on one meal?" Catherine had said.

"Why not?" Brass said. "It's found money."

The dinner would cost considerably less than 2,500, but it gave Brass the opening he wanted – and in Catherine the support he needed – to get Grissom to open up a little about Sara. The conversation had been light as they ate, but as the waiter brought coffee, Brass knew it was time to take his best shot.

"You hear from Sara recently?" he said, keeping his eyes on his cup as he stirred, even though he had added neither cream nor sugar.

Grissom sighed heavily. "Why did I know this was coming?"

Brass looked across the table with his best expression of innocence. "Hey, just a couple of friends talking," he said.

"The answer's no," Grissom said. His tone was brusque, but his expression was profoundly sad. It spoke volumes.

"No you haven't heard, or no you don't want to talk about it?"

"Both."

Catherine reached out a hand and put it lightly on Grissom's. He started to take it away, but she held on. "You have to talk to somebody at some point, Gil. If Sara taught you anything, she taught you how self-destructive it is to keep pain in a box. The lid will blow off eventually, and when it does, it will take you apart."

Grissom took a sip of his coffee. He put the cup down. He picked up an unused dinner knife and began drawing railroad tracks in the padded tablecloth. He worked slowly, oblivious to his friends, who looked on in curiosity. Two long, parallel lines, lots of short crosshatches. Grissom stopped and watched as the padding began returning to its original plane, gradually obliterating his artwork.

"See? Nothing lasts," he said softly. "If you expect it to, you only get hurt."

Catherine glanced at Brass and started to say something to Grissom when the waiter arrived to ask if anyone in the party would like anything more. Brass and Catherine said no. Grissom watched in silence as his railroad tracks continued to shallow out.

When the waiter left with Brass's credit card, Catherine turned back to Grissom.

"How long has it been since you and Sara talked?"

Grissom shook his head. "Not since the week after she left. She said she would call again when she was ready."

"That's been four months, Gil," Catherine said. "You haven't tried calling her in all that time?"

"She changed her number. She didn't want to give me the new one. I have no idea where she is now. I hope she's safe and well. And happy, finally."

Brass cleared his throat. "If you want to find her, I can do it," he said. "Being a cop I have some resources."

Grissom shook his head. "She has to do this her way," he said.

"And what if another four months goes by? And another? And …" Grissom put up a hand and halted Catherine in mid-sentence.

"Stop it!" Grissom's voice was low but adamant. He locked eyes with her. "Can't you understand how talking about it makes it worse? I don't have to wait for the lid to blow off the box, Catherine. This has already ripped me to shreds. Answering the questions of well-intentioned friends only forces me to describe the loss, the fear, all over again. I don't want to talk about Sara. Why can't you respect that?"

He stood.

"Thanks for dinner, Jim. I'll see you both at work Monday."

As he watched Grissom walk away, Brass muttered, "Well, I thought that went well."

When he got home, Grissom sat in his driveway for 10 minutes, his stomach churning at the prospect of walking, once again, into an empty house. He thought about getting the dog, checking into a cheap motel off The Strip somewhere and drinking himself into oblivion on cheap vodka.

But when he woke up, he'd have a hangover, and Sara would still be gone. There didn't seem to be much point.

So he put on a cheerful demeanor for Hank, clipped on his leash and went for a walk.

When he dropped into bed an hour later, he flung an arm over the empty side of the mattress and let his loneliness drive him to sleep.

Sunday morning. Grissom's habit was to be up 5 a.m. and drink a pot of coffee while he read the Las Vegas _Sun _and the _New York Times_. Then, about 12 hours later, he would catch a nap before the start of his shift. But this Sunday morning he came wide awake at 3:18, after only four hours' sleep.

He lay on his back with his eyes closed taking stock of himself. The t-shirt he'd gone to sleep in was plastered to his skin, soaked with sweat. He had the deep twinge in his left calf of a muscle cramp about to bite. His mouth tasted like the felt of a blackjack table. But the nausea and excruciating pain of a migraine trumped everything else.

He got out of bed gingerly and stripped off the wet shirt. The air circulated by his ceiling fan cooled his skin but did nothing for his other symptoms.

Grissom turned on the bathroom lights and switched them off as quickly. The glare torqued up the headache in an instant. Using the ambient light coming through the bathroom window, he identified his bottle of Imitrex and dry-swallowed the pill. He made his way back to bed and eased himself down, not even bothering with the covers.

_Is there any way I could be more miserable? If Sara had just ended it, told me it was a mistake of the moment when she accepted my proposal, I could have moved on. This is like lingering death._

Grissom didn't realize he'd fallen asleep again until he awoke with the sun in his eyes and shivering. Lying in nothing but boxers under a ceiling fan will do that. At least Imitrex seemed to have damped down the migraine.

He got out of bed, ran a hot shower and stepped into it, imagining Sara stepping in behind him, putting her arms around his waist and letting her hand drop, ever so slowly, teasing him until he turned around and gave her what she wanted. It was one of their games. One of their best games, in fact. Would he ever be able to shower again without that memory?

Grissom dressed in blue jeans and a Chicago Cubs t-shirt, started a full pot of coffee and took Hank for a walk in the cool of a desert morning. When they arrived back at the apartment, he picked up the papers.

"We'll go to the dog park later, boy, and you can run yourself out of energy," Grissom said. He poured his coffee and took his newspapers outside onto the balcony. It was too nice a day to be indoors. Hank settled in at his feet.

Two hours later, the dog began to whine and tremble. He lifted his square head toward the front door. Grissom spoke his name.

The dog turned his head and looked at Grissom, but just as quickly looked back at the front door. Grissom listened, trying to penetrate the sounds of birds and light traffic. He heard nothing. He stroked the dog's head and went back to the _New York Times_ Sunday crossword.

Eventually, Hank put his head down, but he continued to tremble.

Grissom glanced at him a few times, growing concerned for the dog.

Then the doorbell rang.

_Shit! If you're collecting for something, go away. If you're selling something, go away. Whoever you are, just go away._

Without checking the peephole, Grissom opened the door. The rush of adrenaline made him light-headed.

"Sara!" Grissom's tone was nearly flat. No hint of welcome. And Sara noticed. He saw the uncertainty in her eyes. Grissom hadn't intended to be cool; he had dreamed of this day, after all. But now his mind filled with instant doubt. Maybe she'd come to collect the rest of her things, to tell him she was leaving for good.

"Bad time?" she said.

"No," Grissom said. "You want to come in?"

Hank wasn't as circumspect as his master. The big boxer was all over Sara with excitement, and she laughed as she rubbed him. "It's good to see you, too, boy."

"Can I get you something? There's fresh coffee." Grissom asked when Sara was fully inside.

"Water would be fine," she said.

Grissom went to the kitchen. When he came back, Sara had settled into a chair and was scratching Hank's head and throat. Grissom loosened the cap and handed the bottle to Sara. He got his coffee and perched on the arm of a chair across from her.

They looked at one another in silence and uncertainty for a few moments. Grissom wasn't quite sure what to ask first. Was she back for good? Was she back to say goodbye? He didn't think he was ready to hear either of those answers. He decided on something less final.

"So how are you doing?" he said. "Have you found what you were looking for?"

Sara sipped the water. "Most of it. I made peace with my mother. It was hard for both of us. We sparred and danced around things for nearly a month before we found any common ground. But in the end, we were both able to say, 'I love you,' and mean it."

Grisson couldn't stop the thought: _That's more than you and I have been able to do._

But he smiled, gratified that Sara found that much resolution.

"I'm happy for you," he said. "Really, I am. And for your mother." He paused. What came next came unbidden. "I've missed you."

He felt a familiar ache in his chest.

Sara stood and walked to a window, her back toward Grissom.

"You know," she said, "while I was in San Francisco, I started seeing someone."

Grissom's smile faded. His heart began to pound. _Don't tell me this, Sara. Please._

"I didn't plan it," Sara said. "It was a chance meeting and an opportunity, and I decided to try it. After a few weeks, I could feel my whole attitude and outlook changing. I felt good about the world. I wanted to get out of bed in the morning to see what the day would bring. I don't think I've ever felt that way before."

As Grissom listened, he could feel his face mirroring his emotional turmoil. He had known it might come to this. But the reality was unbearable.

Then Sara drove a stake through his heart.

"For the first time in my life," she said, "I know what it's like to be happy."

Grissom wasn't sure he could speak. It took a moment for him to choke out the question.

"Do you love him?" His voice wasn't much more than a whisper.

Sara turned. She seemed stunned by the expression on Grissom's face. The surprise was replaced quickly by comprehension.

"It's not a him," she said. "It's a her."

Now Grissom was completely confused.

"Dr. Elaine Samuels is my therapist, Gil. She tends to matters of my head, not my heart. When I said I was seeing someone, I meant I was seeing a therapist." She paused for a moment and smiled. "I guess you thought …"

Grissom could offer only a small shrug of acknowledgment.

She walked to him and knelt in front of him. She took his hands in hers.

"You really aren't getting this, are you?" Sara said gently. "You're the only man I've ever loved. You're the only man I can ever imagine loving. It's as true today as it was the first time I told you, four months ago. You're the key to my happiness, Gil. Dr. Samuels helped me understand I would never be complete without you. You are more important than all the ghosts from my past because you are my future. Having a professional validate that for me made me very, very happy."

Grissom was riding an emotional roller coaster. If Sara meant this, why hadn't she been more emotional when he opened his front door to her? Then she explained.

"But we hadn't talked in four months. I didn't know how you were feeling, whether you still loved me or whether you'd moved on. For all I knew you'd come to hate me. That's why I didn't call first to let you know I was back in Las Vegas. I was afraid you might not care any more. I was afraid you'd tell me to stay away. I spent half an hour outside, getting up the nerve to ring the bell."

_That explains Hank's behavior. He knew Sara was out there._

"When you opened the door," she said, "you didn't seem particularly happy to see me. I was pretty sure I had stepped into my worst nightmare. I wanted to turn and run."

"You had nothing to worry about," Grissom said, his equilibrium beginning to return. "If you had tried to run, I'd have tackled you and carried you back here. I was restrained at the door because I was worried you might have come back to tell me it was over. You saw indifference, but that's a 180 from what I was feeling."

He stood and drew her up to him. "Let me show you what I mean," he said.

He caressed her hair and her face. He kissed her neck lightly, and she moaned with pleasure. His lips touched hers, lightly, and then pulled away. When she tried to kiss him, he kissed her lightly, again, and pulled away, again. He was teasing her, and it was driving her crazy. So she took control. She grabbed him and pulled his body tight against her own, and they kissed as if they never wanted the moment to end.

He put his arm around her shoulders and led her to the bedroom. Hank followed and the door closed. It opened again a moment later, and Hank reemerged.

Sara and Grissom wouldn't reappear for another three hours.

They didn't know it then, but their joy would last only three days.

**xxxxxxx**

Okay, I wrote. Now you write. Thanks.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimers again: I know this is going to be hard to believe, but I don't own anything even remotely connected to CSI. And this story is rated M for violence and adult, um, well, stuff.

**xxxxxxx**

**Chapter 2.**

Grissom and Sara had never been happier. He took a couple of days of vacation. They didn't answer their phones if they didn't recognize the number calling. They didn't check voicemail. They went for long walks and intimate dinners. They made love at every opportunity.

They took more showers than either of them needed.

And they talked about marriage.

"I'm not doing this in front of an Elvis or Liberace impersonator," Sara had said.

"How about Sinatra, or Dean Martin?" Grissom suggested.

"A judge," Sara said. "A nice, honest, dignified judge."

"Where are we going to find one of those in Las Vegas?" Grissom said.

"Good point. Any judge. Anybody with a black robe, for that matter."

They had grown totally at ease with one another, in private and in public. Neither of them thought life could get any better.

Ecklie had offered Sara a CSI 3 position on the swing shift. She and Grissom still couldn't work together, but at least their shifts would overlap so their schedules wouldn't be in total conflict.

"Thanks, Conrad, that's nice of you," Sara said. "But I've already accepted a position at UNLV as an associate professor of criminal justice. They contacted me about it before I went away. They seem to think I know something about forensics. I'm going to start on my Ph.D while I'm teaching. Even better, they're going to let me schedule my teaching at night, and I'll do my studying while Grissom's working. So we'll be on the same clock."

"And I'm really jealous," Grissom said with an impish smile. "I wanted to be the teacher in the family."

"It appears the student just lapped the teacher," Ecklie said as he left the room.

Sara bent to Grissom's ear. "That sounds like a great idea," she said in a whisper. "But I don't think we should do it in public."

Grissom was in the process of swallowing a sip of coffee and nearly choked on it. When he finally stopped laughing he said, "I think that was a car-racing reference, Sara. I don't think Ecklie has any sexual innuendo in him. He's a bit repressed on that score."

**xxxxxx**

Back in his office, Jim Brass was reading an email marked, "Urgent." It had come from Lt. Patrick Shea, homicide division, Los Angeles Police Department.

"Capt. Brass –

"I'm an old friend and colleague of Gil Grissom's, who used to head our crime lab here, as I'm sure you know. I've been trying to reach Gil without success, and it's urgent that I get to him. It was suggested that you might be able to help. One of Gil's last cases here involved three brothers whose idea of sport was to kidnap couples, torture and sexually assault them – the men and the women – and then kill them in pretty grisly ways. You might know the case. It got national headlines. Gil took the brutality personally. He'd gone to college with one of the victims. He put together the most painstaking, thorough investigation I've ever seen, and he nailed those guys in court. They all got death sentences.

"The middle brother, Mark McCaskey, was put to death six months ago. Eugene, the leader, and Charley are still appealing. A week ago, an appellate judge granted Eugene a new trial based on some error the original trial judge made in instructing his jury. After his release, we had McCaskey under constant surveillance, but he slipped it and got away. At the moment, we don't have a clue where he is. When he was convicted, he threatened Gil in the courtroom, in front of witnesses. I don't have a doubt in the world that McCaskey remembers the threat and Grissom, and I think Gil needs to know.

"Call me if you need anything. Gil, too."

Brass read the email twice more. He did remember the case. These guys liked to watch people bleed to death slowly and invented ways to make it happen.

He made two phone calls, printed out a copy of the email, grabbed his jacket and ran for his car.

**xxxxxx**

Brass saw the concern in Grissom's face as he read the email. When he finished and slipped his glasses off, his eyes appeared to be a million miles away. Brass recognized the look. Grissom's mind had spanned not only the miles between Las Vegas and Los Angeles but the years, as well.

"You've got round-the-clock police protection until McCaskey is found," Brass said. "And don't argue. It started 25 minutes ago."

"What about Sara?" Grissom said. "McCaskey preferred couples, remember?"

"She's covered, Gil. She's not in the department any more, but as long as she's with you, the protection can cover her, too."

Grissom didn't look reassured; he looked preoccupied.

"What are you thinking about?" Brass said.

No response.

"Gil. Hey, Gil. What's on your mind?"

Grissom inhaled deeply and sighed. "I'm not sure the department has enough manpower to stop McCaskey if he's determined. I was thinking about my friend, Paul D'Angelo. He owned one of the best security companies in L.A. And he was a little paranoid. He used his own guys to protect his family 24/7. The McCaskey brothers killed four of the guards to get to Paul and Renee. The ME figured Renee lasted about three days before she died. Paul, maybe four or five."

"Then I think we should get you and Sara out of town," Brass said. "New York City, Toronto, Miami. Some place big and anonymous."

Grissom shook his head. "For how long? I'm needed here. Sara's getting ready to start her new job. If McCaskey can't find us right away, he'll just ride the wind until we show up again. He knows we won't run forever."

"So you want to let him come to you?"

"I'll talk to Sara about it, Brass. And if she wants to leave, I'll be happy to have her away somewhere safe. But I'm staying. I've got a gun. If I'm lucky, I'll be the last face on earth Eugene McCaskey ever sees."


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, cutting and pasting from the original is getting old, so I'm putting together three of the original chapters here, and I just hope the combination doesn't exceed posting limitations. This will take you right up to the first heart-stopping event, though I sincerely hope none of your hearts stop.

All disclaimers are still in effect.

**xxxxxxx**

**Chapter 3.**

Sara's reaction to the threat named Eugene McCaskey was about what Grissom expected and feared.

"I'm not going to get separated from you again, Gil," she said. "This is really going to sound really, really hokey. Shakespeare and Henry James would rather slice open their wrists than get caught writing this, but I'm a scientist, not a writer, so I'm not ashamed. I would rather die with you than live without you."

Grissom smiled, but he wasn't amused.

"That's not so much hokey as a bit heavy on the bravado," he said. "And it might be hard to sustain if you're staring at the business end of one of McCaskey's killing tools."

They were sitting on his sofa. Grissom had his left arm draped around Sara's shoulders, and she was leaning into him. He raised his hand and began stroking her hair.

"Do you understand that if something happened to you at the hand of a maniac trying to get to me, I could never live with it?" he said. "I think I'd go mad."

"Then you'd better not let that happen. Because I'm not leaving you alone to face him. Hey, I'm as good with a gun as you are. In fact, as I remember, I scored two points higher than you on our last proficiency test."

"That was six, almost seven months ago, Sara. You haven't had a gun in your hands since you left."

"It's probably like riding a bicycle."

Grissom took his arm away and turned to face Sara.

"Will you please take this seriously," he said, a touch of desperation in his voice. "You can't believe what this sadist is capable of. All you know of the case is what was in the media back then, and they didn't have 10 percent of the story. I'm pretty sure his decade on Death Row hasn't done anything to mellow him out."

"Why don't you tell me what I don't know?" she said.

"I'll do better than that," he said. He stood up and offered her a hand. She took it and he pulled her to her feet. "I'll show you. I had my friend, Pat Shea, email the McCaskey files to me so I could refresh my memory. You ready to see them?"

"After the autopsies I've seen, I think I can take anything."

He raised an eyebrow. He wasn't sure that was true. They went into his office, and he had Sara sit at his desk. He manipulated the computer keyboard over her shoulder. Half an hour later, she raised her hand.

"That's enough," she said. "I get it."

She had watched a slideshow of horribly abused and mutilated bodies. Most had been beaten beyond recognition. Some had been bled like slaughtered livestock: incisions into carotid arteries, femoral arteries and wrists, small cuts that pumped slowly enough for the victims to experience their deaths at some length and in considerable pain. One photo showed an array of the McCaskey brothers' weapons. They included Bowie knives, electric drills and tree pruners. The abuse and the mutilation frequently were sexual in nature, though it was clear none of the McCaskey brutality was about sex. It was all about violence and terror.

"So you'll go?" Grissom said.

"No," she replied. "But if he comes for you, I'll stand with you and fight."

Grissom looked desperate. "Sara …"

She put a finger to his lips. "Shhhhhhhh."

When she took her finger away, she replaced it with her mouth. At first Grissom resisted, but that couldn't last. He was helpless in her presence, just as she was in his. The kiss deepened with urgency. Her hands slid under his shirt and caressed his chest and back. His hands slipped her shirt over her head. Then he unhooked her bra and lowered his face to her breasts. His tongue drove her wild.

He moved her backward and onto his office sofa. She sat down, but wasn't ready to lie under him. She undid his blue jeans and pushed them to the floor with his shorts. Then she took him in her mouth.

She heard Grissom's sharp intake of air. He moaned in sheer pleasure. That pleased her. She loved doing that for him.

When he was fully aroused, he pushed her back onto the sofa gently, slid her slacks off her legs and returned the favor. Then he entered her and raised himself up on his elbows to watch her face.

They made it last as long as they could.

**xxxxxxx**

Four days passed uneventfully. The protection amassed for Grissom and Sara was open and aggressive.

The first day the paper deliveryman was run up against a wall and frisked. His credentials – and the fact that he had about 400 papers in his truck – eventually saved him from a trip to the police station.

A FedEx driver got the same treatment, and the bomb squad insisted on examining and opening the package he had for Grissom before delivery. It contained hard copies of the Eugene McCaskey files. Patrick Shea had sent them.

Even Shea had to run the security gauntlet when he showed up, unexpected, at Grissom's apartment on Day Three.

When he finally rang Grissom's doorbell, he looked disheveled.

"Pat!" Grissom hadn't expected to see his old friend. It had been nearly two years. "Come in." They shook hands warmly. "You look great. How're Kit and the kids?"

"Everyone's fine, Gil. Kit sends her love. Matt's a sophomore at UCLA now. Kerrie starts at USC in the fall. You're not gonna believe this. She wants to be a CSI. I think she got that from her Uncle Gil."

"That pleases me more than you know. But one kid at UCLA and one at USC? I don't think I want to be at your place during football season."

"I don't think _I_ want to be at my house during football season."

"What are you doing here? Can I get you some coffee?"

"That'd be great."

Grissom went to the kitchen and poured a mug from the pot that seemed to be going 24 hours a day lately. "Still take it black?"

"Good memory. Yes."

When Grissom handed over the mug, he got to the point. "You here because of McCaskey?"

Shea sipped the coffee and nodded.

"I don't think that's going to happen," Grissom said. "He knows I'll have an army around me. He's probably running as fast as he can in a totally different direction."

Shea reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small manila envelope. "As much as I wish that were true, take a look at this. It's the reason I'm here."

The envelope contained a copy of a photo. Eleven years had passed since Grissom's last look at McCaskey, and McCaskey had aged badly on Death Row. But there was no denying the picture.

"Where was this taken?" Grissom asked. "When?"

"McCarran," Shea said. "Delta terminal. Last night."

Grissom's heart raced. "He's in Las Vegas, then."

"It would seem so. TSA at McCarran got this photo. We put them on alert after two people at the L.A. Crime Lab reported suspicious calls from a man asking for you. When they told him you hadn't worked there in years, the guy kept pressing on where you'd gone. Nobody told him, but it's easy enough to Google you. You aren't exactly anonymous in Vegas."

Sara walked in at that moment, fresh from a shower she'd taken alone for a change. Her hair was still damp. She didn't know Shea, but she recognized immediately he was someone Grissom knew and trusted.

"Well, hello," Shea said. He turned to Grissom. "You going to introduce us?"

Grissom looked from Shea to Sara and back and grinned. "Patrick Shea, my old friend from the LAPD, this is Sara Sidle, my fiancée."

"Your what?" Shea burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, Sara. It's a pleasure meeting you. But back in L.A., we weren't sure if Gil was gay or just not interested in women. He never dated anyone we knew of. He was a workaholic with no outside interests." He turned to Grissom. "Well, my friend, you came late to the game, but when you got there, you got there in grand fashion."

"If you come on to her, Pat, I'll deck you first and then report you to Kit," Grissom said with mock seriousness. "You'll never be able to go home."

Sara wasn't sharing in the fun. She knew who Shea was. She wanted to know what brought him to Vegas. So she pressed him, and he told her.

"So the guy's here, and you're sure of that?" she said.

"Yeah," Shea said. "I'm sorry. But as of today, you've got one more set of eyes watching out for you. Mine. We let McCaskey get away. Our bad. I want him back before he does any more damage."

**xxxxxxxx**

Grissom's apartment began to resemble New York's Grand Central Station. Catherine and Brass showed up together. Brass stayed nearly an hour before leaving to answer a B&E call. Over the next two hours, Warrick, Greg and Nick all dropped by to see if there was anything they could do to help. Grissom began to wonder if they weren't all finding ways to become part of his protective service. He didn't want that. He didn't want any of his team standing in the line of fire. He said as much.

"We're not here for that," Nick said. "We're just hanging out, playing with the dog. Whatever."

Grissom scowled at Nick over the top of his glasses, but he was more touched than angry. The mention of Hank reminded Grissom it was time for a walk.

"I'll do it," Nick said, snatching the leash.

"You think I'm in danger walking my dog?" Grissom said.

"Yeah," Nick said. "Besides, what would the neighbors think? You and Hank surrounded by a dozen S.W.A.T. thugs with automatic weapons. There goes the neighborhood. Not to mention the embarrassment for the pup. It's hard to go with a lot of strangers watching."

Grissom grinned. "You'll have to pick up after him," he said.

Nick waved the plastic bag he's already taken from a box of them. "Got it covered, boss. I'm a CSI. I've picked up lots worse things."

Shea helped himself to the last of the coffee and started a new pot.

"I see you've earned the same sort of loyalty here you developed in the City of Angels, Gil," he said. "Though I don't recall anyone in our shop offering to marry you."

"No surprise there, Pat. They were all guys."

"Yeah," Shea said, "there was that."

The CSI crew began to wander off as the afternoon moved toward evening. They needed to get ready for work. Ecklie was the last to stop by. He came to put Grissom on paid leave until the McCaskey matter came to a resolution.

"I need you at work, but I can't risk it," Ecklie said. "You'd be too exposed in the field and, frankly, I can't see you confining yourself to the lab for the duration. Besides, it would mean leaving Sara unprotected. Since she's not with the department any more, the city won't pay for more than one officer outside her door. From what I know about McCaskey, one officer wouldn't help."

The thought of Sara alone terrified Grissom. He knew Ecklie was doing them a huge favor. As long as they stayed together, he could justify all the protection the city could muster to keep his senior CSI supervisor safe. If Sara was thus protected, as well, it was merely a side benefit, not an additional expense to the taxpayer.

"Thanks, Conrad," Grissom said. "I appreciate this." He meant it.

Finally the crowd thinned to Grissom, Sara and Shea, who was going to bunk in Grissom's second bedroom and serve as Grissom's last line of defense.

"I guess I'd better think about putting together some dinner," Sara said. "I'm thinking vegetable lasagna with fresh basil from Grissom's herb garden and a salad."

"That sounds great, Sara," Shea said. "Anything I can do to help?"

"You and Gil can make the salad later," she said. "The lasagna's a one-person job."

Grissom and Shea talked a while, until well after dark, about McCaskey and the errant judicial procedure that set him free. After a time, the back of Grissom's neck began to tingle, as if a couple of spiders were walking through his hair.

He stood up abruptly, his eyes frantically scanning for Sara and not finding her.

"Sara!"

No answer.

He looked in his office and called to her again.

Nothing.

He went into their bedroom. The bathroom door was open and she was nowhere to be seen.

Shea came up behind Grissom. "What's wrong?" he said.

"I can't find Sara," Grissom said. He could feel the thudding of his heart in his ears.

_Basil!_ Sara had mentioned using fresh basil in the lasagna. It was in his garden, in the back yard.

Grissom wrenched open the sliding glass door to his patio, startling the two officers on duty.

"Have you seen Sara?" he asked, more a demand than a question.

"Yes, sir," the older man said. "She said she was going to the garden."

"And you didn't go with her?" Grissom was incredulous. He jerked the screen door open and stepped outside with Shea and the two cops on his heels.

"Sara," he called into the darkness. "Sara!"

He moved toward the garden. He didn't think he'd ever been so frightened.

_This can't be happening. Sara, where are you? Please answer me._

"Sara," he called, louder this time.

Only the wind replied.


	4. Chapter 4

Geez, folks, enough with the begging, already. You're a beast that needs constant feeding, which is just fine with me. Happy to oblige.

Disclaimers? Same old. Same old.

**xxxxxx**

**Chapter 4.**

Grissom slammed the bathroom door and leaned over the sink. His stomach churned; the sting of bile etched his throat and the taste coated his mouth.

Shea had dragged him indoors, out of the back yard, both for his safety and so in his frantic hunt for Sara he wouldn't trample evidence. Grissom had become violently ill. He got to his bathroom just in time. His stomach turned over again and again, but all he had to give up was the black coffee he'd been consuming all day. He felt light-headed, and he'd broken a sweat.

He raised his head and looked at himself in the mirror. He didn't recognize the reflection staring back at him.

Someone was pounding on the bathroom door.

"Gil, are you okay?"

It was Brass.

"Yeah," he said. "Give me a minute."

Grissom brushed his teeth, used mouthwash and rinsed the sink before opening the bathroom door. Brass waited on the other side.

"Jesus, you look like you need to lie down before you fall down," Brass said, wrapping his hand around Gil's left arm. Brass tried to move Grissom toward his bed. Grissom resisted.

"Who's processing the scene?" he said.

"Catherine and Greg. Warrick and Nick are interviewing the surviving cops."

It took a few seconds for those words to penetrate. When they did, Grissom turned to face Brass.

"Surviving? What do you mean? What the hell happened out there?"

"There were two men stationed at the side of your unit, right by the garden," Brass said. "When Sara went outside, the two men on your patio escorted her into the yard and then passed her off to the two officers at the side. She was never out of the sight of someone on the detail."

"But she's gone …"

"And the two officers stationed at the garden are dead," Brass said. "Their throats were cut. Nobody heard a sound."

"Oh, dear God," Grissom whispered. He sank down on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

"I'm sorry about your guys, Brass, but what happened to Sara?" he said, after a time.

"The grass was wet. The sprinkler system had been on up until an hour before all this went down. There were two tracks in the grass, as though someone was dragged a short way. Where the grass ends in bare dirt we found men's shoeprints, size ten. One set of prints headed toward the house, the other away. Same guy, but the prints headed away were a little deeper. We think whoever killed my men and took Sara started carrying her at that point."

Something didn't add up.

"One person couldn't have done all that," Grissom said. "Overpower and kill two cops and take Sara? She wouldn't have gone easily or silently if she had the option. Did you find signs of a struggle?"

"One of Sara's sandals. That's all."

"We don't think he acted alone," Brass said. "There were two additional sets of shoeprints in the grass. We couldn't account for either one of them. They appear to be sizes eight-and-a-half and eleven, or pretty close. It's hard to get a precise measurement off grass. The two dead officers were both size twelve."

"How did they get past your people and that close to the house?" Grissom said.

"We have no idea."

Grissom looked up at Brass. "I guess there's a lot of blood."

"Arterial spray."

"Is any of it Sara's?"

"We won't know for sure until it's all processed, Gil. But the location is consistent with the officers' positions. At last report, nobody'd found any blood in the area where Sara might logically have been."

Grissom dropped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He had just been slammed by déjà vu. This was the same way he felt when he found the Miniature Killer's replica of a red Mustang overturned in the desert, and discovered a small doll pinned under the car. It had been painted and dressed to resemble Sara. Only this was worse. Then he knew Sara was alive, and he had an outside chance to save her.

This time, for all he knew, she was already dead.

Or worse, being raped and tortured by a sadistic killer.

He had to find her fast. Again.

But this time he hadn't a clue where to begin looking.

**xxxxxxx**

Consciousness returned slowly, and Sara couldn't understand in the first few seconds why she couldn't move, couldn't see and had difficulty breathing. She had pain in her head so severe it made her nauseous. For a split second she thought she was back in the trunk of Natalie Davis's car, headed for the worst 24 hours of her life.

Then she was fully awake and acutely aware that if she were a prisoner of Eugene McCaskey, her next 24 hours would make Natalie's seem like a day at Disney.

She was on her right side on a cool hard surface. It felt rough and gritty and might have been concrete. Her hands and feet were bound. She was blindfolded and gagged and seriously hurting. She willed herself to lie still. If McCaskey had taken her, and if he was watching her, she wanted him to think she was still unconscious. It would buy her some time to think.

The events at Gil's apartment came back to her. She was stooped in Gil's herb garden, cutting fresh basil, when she heard squishing sounds behind her. The grass was wet. She assumed her armed guards were walking around in it. She turned in time to see a hooded man lower one bloody body to the ground as another hooded man slashed the throat of the second officer. She started to call for help when a strong hand grabbed her shoulder and something jabbed her in the upper arm. Within a split second, she couldn't breathe, couldn't move.

Remembering it now, she thought she must have been injected with some sort of paralyzing agent, succinylcholine, perhaps. It would have immobilized her body and stopped her breathing for a short time. An overdose would have killed her.

Well, there hadn't been an overdose because she remembered waking up and seeing the world upside down. She was being carried over someone's shoulder. Gil's, perhaps? No, not Gil's. This man's scent was different, unpleasant. She struggled. He threw her on the ground. She remembered landing on something hard and sharp, a rock perhaps, or a large piece of broken glass, and feeling it rip her back.

She remembered blue jeans soaked with police blood, and the boot that kicked her in the head. That's all she remembered until now.

She wondered if Gil had been kidnapped, too, and pushed the thought away. McCaskey couldn't have taken both of them at once. But Gil would be out of his mind with worry. The thought made her profoundly sad. She remembered how his iron stoicism had dissolved when they were finally alone together at the hospital after her rescue from the desert. She never wanted to see him so torn up again.

She pushed all those memories away. She couldn't give in to emotion. If there were a way out of this, it would require a clear head, planning and cunning.

Footsteps. Coming toward her. Heavy. She sensed someone standing over her. Something nudged her back, and then came screaming pain. Someone had kicked her over the left kidney, the same place torn open earlier. She felt blood begin to flow again and heard her own moaning from behind the gag.

"I figured you faking," the voice said. "I'm going to unwrap you now. We got a lot to do, you and me. We need to get started."

He took the gag out of her mouth first.

"I'll get you some water in a minute," he said.

He unbound her wrists, then her ankles. Last was the blindfold.

Sara blinked. There was a man bent over her, but she couldn't see his face because the blinding bright light over his head rendered him no more than a silhouette. He lifted her head gently and put a bottle of water to her lips. She drank and nodded when she'd had enough.

"Who are you?" she said.

"You know who I am. I'm the reason all the cops had your house surrounded, not that it did them much good."

"Eugene McCaskey."

"Yes. And you would be Sara Sidle."

"What do you want from me?" Sara said.

"I want Grissom."

"I won't help you get him."

"You won't have to. Right now he's going crazy trying to figure out where you are. I'm going to help him, and when he takes my bait, I'll have you both."

Although Sara asked the next question, she didn't really want to know the answer.

"And then what?"

"Ah, then what? I will force him to watch me hurt you. I will tell him it's his fault. And he'll believe it because that's the kind of man he is. It is an exquisite form of mental and emotional torture, Sara. It will continue until you die. Then it will be his turn."


	5. Chapter 5

Same disclaimers.

Don't forget: Reviews are greatly appreciated. Leave them in the tip jar.

**xxxxxxx**

**Chapter 5.**

When McCaskey left, he slammed a heavy metal door behind him. Sara heard it lock. Gingerly, she pushed herself to a sitting position and surveyed her cell. It was a room about eight feet square with a low ceiling, perhaps seven feet. No windows. The light fixture that had masked McCaskey's features was a single bulb, probably 100 watts, tucked behind a closely woven metal mesh cover, the sort of thing you might see in a high school gymnasium. There was no way she would be able to break the bulb and use broken glass as a weapon. She wished she could turn the light off. It was killing her head.

She remembered getting a quick glimpse of the boot right before McCaskey used it as a battering ram on her skull. It had a swollen toe, the style indicative of a work boot with metal reinforcement. He might as well have smashed her temple with a crow bar.

Sara saw a blue pad on the floor in one corner of her cell. It looked like a workout mat and probably could be used as a bed. McCaskey had left the bottle of water beside it. Sara looked around for plumbing and found a bucket.

"Great," she said. "Maybe the Strip hotels would like to adopt this décor."

She tried getting to her feet, but the effort was too much. Her head and kidney screamed at her. Dizziness and nausea overtook her. She slid down a wall until she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, willing herself to stay calm and think.

**xxxxxxx**

Grissom paced his living room like a caged animal. He couldn't shove the grim photos in the McCaskey file from his mind. His subconscious kept transferring all the brutality to his mental image of Sara, and it was tearing him apart.

He knew every cop in Las Vegas, every deputy in Clark County, every trooper in Nevada and beyond were looking for Sara. But what were they looking for? And where? He remembered over and over how hard, how agonizing it had been to find Sara in the desert when they knew approximately where she was. Even so, if it hadn't been for a chance sun glare off a broken car mirror, they might never have found her. Now they were searching an entire state – and beyond. Five states had common borders with Nevada. McCaskey could have taken her to any one of them.

Northern California, eastern Oregon, Idaho, Utah, Arizona. So much wilderness, so much desert. They could be anywhere.

"No, they couldn't, Gil," Shea said. Grissom hadn't realized he had spoken his thoughts. "Don't forget, McCaskey wants you, too. You're the real prize for him. He won't wander far, and he knows where you are."

"What am I supposed to do, Pat? Sit here and wait for him while he does God knows what to Sara?"

"First, you have to trust Sara. She's not going to roll over and play dead for this guy. She's going to fight, and she's going to be looking for opportunities and advantages. She looked pretty fit to me. Don't write her off."

Grissom turned on his old friend. "Write her off? What the hell are you talking about? I'll never give up on her. But what's she supposed to do? The evidence, Pat. Remember? We follow the evidence. The evidence says McCaskey has two new accomplices. Yeah, Sara's strong. And she's determined. But this isn't a fair fight. And I can't help level this … this killing field when I'm a prisoner in my own home."

A new voice entered the conversation.

"And if you left and mounted your own search, where the hell do you think you'd start?" It was Catherine. She'd come in with Brass. Grissom dropped the old subject for the moment.

"What do you know, Catherine?"

"We think McCaskey jacked a Chevy Silverado," Brass said. "The owner picked him out of a photo array. We've got the VIN and the plates and alerts have gone out everywhere."

"Don't you find that odd?" Grissom said.

"Why odd?" said Brass.

"McCaskey doesn't want to be found. So why jack a truck and leave a witness? Why not steal an empty vehicle from a parking lot?"

"I'll ask him when I meet up with him," Brass said. "Meanwhile, we're looking for the truck."

Grissom squinted in thought. Something about this wasn't right.

**xxxxxxx**

Grissom lay awake, alone in his bed, tossing fitfully for hours that night. When physical and emotional exhaustion finally drove his brain to sleep, his imagination stalked him with nightmares about Eugene McCaskey beating and repeatedly raping Sara. In one version, Grissom himself held a gun on Sara while McCaskey went about his brutal business.

He awoke with a gasp. He was breathing hard. Sleep would not come again.

"What do you suppose that was about?" he asked Shea the next morning as they ate a pancake breakfast Shea prepared himself.

"I'm not a shrink, Gil, but if I had to hazard a guess, I'd say you blame yourself for the situation Sara's in, which is ridiculous. But telling you that won't stop you from feeling that way."

_I am responsible. If I'd insisted she go away, or if I'd watched more closely and stopped her from leaving the apartment … If. If. If. _

He tossed his fork on his plate and rubbed his eyes. He took deep breaths, trying to combat the tension that had him tied in knots.

"Eat something," Shea ordered. "The Sara's-Been-Kidnapped Diet is not FDA approved."

Grissom picked at his food, not eating a lot, but getting something in his stomach. He loved pancakes – too much, in fact – but this morning they tasted like cardboard. Shea pushed a small bowl of fresh fruit across the table.

"At least eat this," he said.

"You're not my mother," Grissom said, though he did eat the berries and the pineapple.

The front door opened and Hank came bounding in, followed closely by Greg. Greg was carrying the dog's leash. The team had been great about caring for the dog while Grissom was under orders to stay inside. The night before, Nick had decided it would be best for Hank to live with him until the situation was resolved. He planned to come by after shift this morning. Grissom had been reluctant to see Hank go. It seemed his entire family was being dismantled piece by piece. But Nick loved dogs. He would take great care of Hank, and Grissom saw the wisdom in the decision.

Brass and Catherine were next through the door, and something about their expressions set off Grissom's internal alarm.

"What is it?" he said without bothering with the usual, "Good morning."

"We found the Silverado about an hour ago," Brass said. "To be more precise, the LVFD found it. It was engulfed in flames on a Summerlin Parkway ramp."

Grissom knew there was more to this than a burning truck. He bored Brass with his eyes, demanding the rest of the news. Brass's face reflected his discomfort, and he heaved a huge sigh. Grissom knew his friend was about to go somewhere he didn't want to be.

"There was a body in the cab, stuffed behind the seats, burned beyond recognition," Brass said. "Female. It appears from the position of the arms and legs that she'd been bound, and we found what might have been the remains of some duct tape in the ankle area. She was burned so badly there won't be fingerprints."

"And you think it's Sara?" Grissom sounded calm, but his guts were churning.

"She was the right height and build," Catherine said. "Hair color seems to match. But we won't know for sure until DNA comes back. We're not even sure how she died, though …" Catherine's voice caught, "there are indications she was burned alive."

Grissom's knees buckled, and he lowered himself to the sofa to keep from falling. Catherine sat beside him and took his hand. Grissom didn't trust himself to look at her.

"That's not McCaskey's pattern," Shea said from Grissom's left. "He kills couples together."

"He's been on Death Row for ten years," Brass said. "Patterns change."

He pulled a small, clear plastic evidence envelope from his jacket pocket. He handed it to Grissom.

"The body was found with the head tucked down against the right shoulder," Brass said. "That protected part of the right side of the neck where we found this."

Grissom recognized a piece of one of the thin, braided leather collars Sara sometimes wore. He tried to remember if she was wearing one when she disappeared. He couldn't summon the image.

"Is it hers?" Shea asked.

Grissom nodded weakly. "It definitely could be."

"It also could have been a plant," Shea said.

Brass agreed. "It could," he said.

Grissom stood. "I want to see her."

"Why, Gil?" Catherine said, standing beside him with a hand on his arm. "Wait for the DNA. Then we'll know for sure."

"I'll know now," he said. He strode for the door, stopped and looked back at his stunned friends.

"Anybody else coming?" he said.

He pushed the door open and walked through it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6.**

Sara heard the lock release on her metal cell door.

She had been lying on the blue exercise pad for several hours, trying and failing to sleep. Between her head and her back, she couldn't find a comfortable position. She wished for some clean clothes. Her shirt stuck to her back where the gash over her kidney had bled twice, and profusely. Blood caked her face and the front of her shirt from the head wound.

The aroma of toast preceded McCaskey into the cell.

"I brought food," he said, his voice actually kind. "You need strength. I know you're a vegetarian, and I prepared accordingly."

He handed her a plastic plate with four slices of whole wheat toast, strawberry jam and fresh blueberries. He set a steaming mug of coffee on the floor and replaced her water bottle, though it was still almost full.

"You'll have to eat with your fingers," he said. "Sorry about that, but utensils can become shanks, and I have to keep both of us healthy for the big show."

Sara put the plate on the mat to her left and pushed it away.

"You have to eat and drink," he said.

"I don't have to do anything," she said.

Sara didn't think she'd ever seen anyone move so fast. McCaskey had reached down and yanked her to her feet before she had any time to react.

He literally hurled her against a wall. Pain lanced her kidney, and she felt the gaping wound begin to bleed yet again. Her head snapped back against the cinder block wall, and her vision became a red haze of agony. She heard the air escape her lungs, and she began gasping. Just when she thought she was breathing normally again, McCaskey landed a fist below her rib cage, and she felt her lungs empty a second time. He slapped her backhand across the right cheek, a blow that opened a cut that ripped all the way to bone and sent her to the floor.

She lay still, thinking in her semi-consciousness that some day she needed to learn when to keep her mouth shut.

**xxxxxxx**

Grissom had seen badly burned bodies before, both the living and the dead. It never was pleasant, and he steeled himself for this one because of the chance the remains belonged to the woman he loved. Despite his preparations, Grissom recoiled when Doc Robbins pulled the sheet back. No one could have identified the body from a visual inspection of this incinerated corpse. But in Grissom's exhausted, terrified mind what was left of the features could be interpreted as Sara's features. He tasted fresh bile in the back of his throat.

He forced himself to examine the body. He was horrified at the amount of flesh the fire had consumed. The hands, arms and feet were burned to bone.

He saw the mouth, gaping in what could have been a final scream of agony. But as fire consumes muscle, features can contort. The mouth was not evidence that the woman burned alive. And then it hit him. The mouth contained no teeth.

Grissom looked up at Robbins, and Robbins knew exactly what his friend wanted to know.

"Somebody knocked all her teeth out, probably with a brick or a rock," Robbins said. "It's unimaginable."

"After she died?" Grissom asked. The question was more like a plea.

_Please let it be postmortem._

"Antemortem," Robbins said. "There was blood on her gums. The dead don't bleed." He released a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, Gil."

Grissom swallowed hard and shook his head, almost imperceptibly. His eyes dropped to the body. "It can't be Sara," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. Then his gaze returned to Robbins. "Why did Catherine say she might have been burned alive?"

Robbins sighed again. "Her throat, her esophagus, her lungs were all seared. She inhaled fire."

Doc Robbins put a hand on Grissom's shoulder. Grissom turned his back on the autopsy table and let his chin fall to his chest. He slumped like a blow-up toy with a bad leak. Fearing he might pass out, Catherine quickly wheeled a stool up next to him. But he braced himself by grabbing the edge of the table.

Catherine couldn't bear to see him like this. Tears streamed down her face.

**xxxxxxx**

"It's not Sara." Brass pushed through the swinging double doors. "DNA came back to a Patsy Cutshaw, a hooker most frequently found around the Santa Carlo. At least she used to be. Her description does come pretty close to Sara, though. McCaskey probably picked her up for that very reason, then set the truck on fire with her body inside to jerk us around."

Grissom raised a hand to his mouth and released a breath he thought he'd been holding for an hour. Catherine threw her arm around his shoulder and hugged him. Robbins glanced at the ceiling in a silent prayer of thanks.

"This is how he might have subdued her," the coroner said. He pointed to a wound in the body's right side. "It's clearly a stab wound. It didn't hit anything vital, but it would have put her down. Smooth blade, maybe an inch and a quarter wide but thick, like a quarter inch. Pretty typical of the Bowie style."

"Her bad luck," Catherine said. "Wrong place, wrong time."

"But none of this gets us any closer to Sara," Grissom said. "In fact, now that the truck's history, we don't have anything left to look for."

**xxxxxxx**

Keeping Grissom under surveillance was boring work, and McCaskey stayed interested by inventing fantasies for the moment he would reunite the two lovers for the last time. The fantasies aroused him, and he enjoyed the sensation, but he didn't act on it because he didn't want to dull the reality. He thought he was going to enjoy raping the woman every bit as much as he would enjoy creating a slow, painful death for the man. Between jail and prison, it had been nearly 13 years since his last kill. He needed this, and no one deserved it more than Grissom and his whore.

McCaskey loathed Grissom for judging him. Grissom had sat in that Los Angeles County courtroom and pronounced his judgment to the world:

"All the weapons introduced at this trial were found in a vault under Eugene McCaskey's garage," he had said. "All were found with the fingerprints and DNA of the defendant and the blood of the victims."

"And Dr. Grissom," the prosecutor said, "in your judgment _(there was that word!)_, did the defendant, Eugene McCaskey, make any effort to clean any off these killing tools between incidents?"

"It doesn't appear so," Grissom had said. "We found blood matching all the known victims on each of the implements."

"And why, in your opinion, might the defendant not have cleaned up his tools?"

McCaskey's attorney had objected, but the judge overruled him. Grissom was an expert, qualified to answer the question.

"When one victim sees the blood of others, it tends to heighten the anticipation of pain and the terror of death," Grissom said.

The jury accepted his judgment and threw it back in the form of a death sentence.

McCaskey's hands clenched into fists. What gave Grissom the right to judge him? He certainly had no more privilege on that score than McCaskey's own parents, and McCaskey had butchered them for it. They all had paid in suffering and blood for their sins. It was long past time for Grissom to do the same.

**xxxxxxx**

McCaskey had followed Grissom to the morgue. He knew Grissom would get cabin fever eventually, but he didn't want to wait around. So he staged "The Burning of Sara Sidle" to draw him out, and it worked. Now, he would drop the other shoe.

**xxxxxxx**

Catherine stayed at the morgue to bag any trace found on Patty Cutshaw's body. Brass and Shea would escort Grissom home. Brass drove with his jacket unbuttoned for easy access to his service piece. Shea sat in the back seat beside Grissom, gun drawn, eyes scanning everywhere. Tension in the car torqued up palpably whenever they stopped for a traffic light. Brass thought they were just too vulnerable.

A little east of downtown. Another traffic light. Brass wasn't stopping again. He reached out to activate his lights and siren. The traffic signal turned green for him. He stepped on the accelerator and caught motion to his right out of the corner of his eye. A Chevy Suburban had run the light and was coming straight at them at a high rate of speed.

From the back seat, Shea yelled a warning.

"Move! Move! Watch on the left!"

A very quick thought crossed Brass's mind that Shea had his directions confused. Then he saw the second Suburban coming from the left at even higher speed. They would make a sandwich of his car.

The first SUV slammed into the rear door where Shea was sitting. The second hit the driver's side exactly between Brass in the front seat and Grissom in the rear. The car's frame and sheet metal caved in on the two of them.

Brass's world went silent.

And then it went black.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimers: Um, whatever I said before.

Question: Are you all losing interest in the story? Reviews have dropped way off. Or are you just shell-shocked? Lemme know.

**xxxxxxx**

**Chapter 7.**

Grissom gradually came back to consciousness lying face down on a cold concrete floor. His hands were bound behind his back. No, they were handcuffed. And tightly. He measured his surroundings. Bare room. Small. One overhead bulb, very bright. No windows. No escape.

He guessed this is where Eugene McCaskey meant for him to die.

And Sara.

His breath caught. Would he ever see her again?

He tried to roll onto his back but pain seared his left shoulder and his neck. Had he been shot? He didn't see any blood on his clothes, but …

The ambush began to come back to him. A big SUV hit their car, right where Shea was sitting. He heard Pat scream in pain. The second SUV hit Brass. He didn't hear Brass utter a sound. Grissom had been whipsawed by the dual collisions. His injuries likely occurred when he was hurled into the passenger door. He wondered how badly Brass and Shea had been hurt. If he hadn't insisted on going to the morgue …

_Stop it! There's nothing you can do about it now, one way or the other._

He lowered his face to the coolness of the concrete to think.

**xxxxxxx**

Sara heard the bolt on her cell door slide back. McCaskey was returning. How long had it been? She glanced over at the blue mat. The first plate of food was still there, untouched. So was the bottle of water, also untouched. Sara was past hunger. But she wanted water. Well, too bad. Her body would have to adjust.

McCaskey appeared with a new plastic plate of food. He picked up the old one.

He glanced at Sara and shook his head. "If you're not eating or drinking because you don't want to use the bucket, don't worry about it. There are no cameras in here. And I'm not particularly voyeuristic, anyway. You might as well satisfy yourself. You'll be dead by my hand long before you starve or die of thirst. Your boyfriend joined us today. The fun begins tonight."

**xxxxxxx**

Grissom had moved to a sitting position against a wall when McCaskey showed up. The first thing Grissom noticed was the handle of an enormous Bowie-style knife protruding from a sheath on McCaskey's belt.

"I guess you never thought you'd see me again," McCaskey said.

"I always held out that hope," Grissom said.

McCaskey took three fast steps and kicked Grissom in the ribs, as if he were drop kicking a football. He not only felt bones break, he heard them. Grissom squeezed his eyes shut in pain and willed himself to stay conscious. He had heard the ribs break, too.

"Now I see what you and your girlfriend have in common," McCaskey said. "You're both smartasses, which really isn't so smart given your predicaments." He crouched down at Grissom's feet.

"Let me explain what's going to happen tonight," he said. "I'm going to take you to see your girlfriend, and you're going to watch while I do things to her that will turn your stomach. If she lives through it, we'll try it again tomorrow night and for as many nights after that as she survives. When she's dead, I'll start in on you. And when you're dead, I'll leave both your bodies to the rats. Nobody will find you here. There aren't many people who even know this place exists."

"Listen to me, Eugene." Grissom found it hard to talk. Every breath, no matter how shallow, felt as if someone were twisting a knife in his chest. "Let Sara leave, please. She had nothing to do with your situation in California. I'm the one you want to kill, and I'll cooperate if you let her live."

McCaskey delivered a roundhouse right to Grissom's temple, opening a deep cut and snapping Grissom's head around. Blood flowed freely.

"You'll cooperate? That's rich." McCaskey said. "You don't have a choice. As for Sara, she deserves to die for choosing a man like you."

McCaskey stood up and kicked Grissom again, twice, over the left kidney this time, just as he had with Sara. Grissom yelped in pain. This was torture borne of pure hatred.

"You and your girlfriend are twins," McCaskey said as he left the room.

Grissom had no idea what McCaskey meant. He put his head back against the wall and lost consciousness.

**xxxxxxx**

When Sara heard the deadbolt slide on her cell door, she knew she was out of time. She wouldn't allow herself to show her fear. That would give McCaskey too much satisfaction. Maybe she could provoke McCaskey into killing her quickly, impulsively. She would be dead, but it would spare Grissom the agony of having to watch her tortured.

The door groaned open and Sara gasped when she saw Grissom. Blood flowed freely down the left side of his face. His shirt was open, and she saw an enormous fresh bruise on the left side of his chest. He appeared in terrible pain. When he saw her, the agony on his face deepened.

"My God, Sara, what has he done to you?" His voice wasn't much more than a hoarse whisper.

McCaskey came up behind Grissom. "Nothing like what's yet to come," he said. He punched Grissom over the left kidney, heaping more abuse on his battered back. Grissom went to his knees and doubled over in pain.

Sara pleaded. "No, Eugene. Just stop it!"

Grissom fell over on his side. Sneering at Sara, McCaskey walked over to him and kicked him in the ribs again. And again. Grissom made no sound at all and lay still.

Sara saw something then that terrified her, a pink froth leaking from Grissom's mouth. He had broken ribs. One of them had punctured a lung. He was bleeding internally, and if something weren't done right away, he would drown in his own blood.

"Eugene, you've got to get him into a sitting position," she said. "He's dying."

McCaskey looked skeptical.

"I'm not lying to you," Sara said. She forced herself to her hands and knees and crawled to Grissom. "He's got broken ribs."

"Yeah, I know," McCaskey said. He sounded pleased with himself.

"Take the cuffs off."

"Go to hell."

"You want him to die before he watches you kill me?"

"No."

"Then take the cuffs off and help me get him sitting up against the wall."

"I don't trust you, lady."

Sara cradled Grissom's head in her lap. His breathing had become labored.

"Look at that," she said pointing at the froth. "One of the broken ribs punctured a lung. When he exhales, he's exhaling blood and air. That's what makes the bubbles. Now help me get him up, dammit. Thanks to you, I can't do it alone."

They got Grissom against the wall, though Sara had to let McCaskey do most of the work, and he was none too gentle about it. But he did take the handcuffs off.

Grissom had come semi-conscious. Sara asked for the bottle of water. McCaskey brought it and then left, slamming the door behind him. Sara put the bottle to Grissom's lips and poured very slowly.

"Swallow, Gil," she told him softly. "Try not to move."

His eyes opened and she could see in them the pain he was in, both physical and emotional. She ran her hand through his bloody hair and kissed him on the forehead. And then he was out again.

She lay down beside him and held his hand.


	8. Chapter 8

Same disclaimers.

Thanks for the reviews. Always welcome.

**xxxxxxx**

**Chapter 8.**

The next time Sara raised her head, she saw that Grissom remained slumped against the wall, unconscious. Or dead. Sara couldn't see any movement in his chest, any indication he was breathing.

"Grissom."

No response.

"Gil, please."

Nothing.

She winced as she propped herself on one elbow and put a hand lightly on Grissom's chest. She remembered how evenly it rose and fell beside her in their bed. She felt none of that now. She touched his neck, over the carotid artery, and found a pulse, rapid and thready. He was in serious trouble.

She struggled to sit up, and her eyes fell on the last plate of food McCaskey had delivered. It was still on the blue mat, untouched. She really looked at it for the first time. Toast and fruit. But it wasn't the food that interested her.

She looked back at Grissom.

"Hang on, Gil. I have an idea. It's pretty desperate, but right now _we're_ pretty desperate."

She pulled herself back to the mat, pausing twice when the vertigo and pain became unbearable. She ate the food. She drank some water. And then she began working.

When McCaskey entered the room half an hour later, Sara was down on the floor, apparently unconscious. McCaskey bent over her and slapped her face.

"Wake up bitch," he said.

Sara moaned and opened her eyes.

McCaskey moved to Grisson and slapped him hard. "Wake up, fucker. Watch your girlfriend die."

Grissom's head lolled. He opened his eyes and coughed up blood.

"You might be dying, bastard, but you're going to see your girl messed up bad before you go."

He moved back to Sara and pulled the Bowie knife. She remembered it, or one just like it, from the photo array on Grissom's computer. She shuddered.

McCaskey stripped off his shirt and then his pants. He stood naked and fully aroused above her.

He turned Sara so Grissom would have a full view and then stripped off her jeans. She pretended to be too groggy to fight, which wasn't far from the truth.

McCaskey lowered himself onto her. The pressure on her injuries was excruciating. She groaned. She rolled and squirmed, trying to shift his weight off of her body, and all he did was laugh. It was the laugh of a lunatic.

Sara could see Grissom in torment, trying to speak but unable to get breath from his flooding lungs.

McCaskey spread Sara's legs roughly and moved the knife into position to cut away her underwear. Sara continued to writhe under him, and he fought her down, finally pinning her by putting a hand around her throat and pressing her head into the concrete floor. But that was okay. He was distracted, which is what she needed.

She got a hand under the back of her shirt and quickly withdrew the shard of plastic she had broken off her dinner plate, the plate McCaskey seemed to have forgotten. When his focus was entirely on her body, she drove the eight-inch blue plastic shiv between ribs, into his chest. She was amazed at how easily it penetrated.

A look of utter amazement passed over McCaskey's face. He collapsed on top of Sara. The knife fell out of his hand. He began clawing at her hand, but she wouldn't let go of her weapon. Not until she worked it into his heart. Not until he stopped moving.

She shoved his body away, rolled over and found Grissom. She thought he might have smiled.

**xxxxxxx**

Sara struggled back into her jeans. The exertion exhausted her. She retrieved the water bottle and dripped small amounts into Grissom's mouth.

"It's going to be okay now, Gil," she said. "McCaskey's dead. I'm going to find help." She took his hand. "Don't leave me now. I need you too much."

Grissom began coughing again. The blood was flowing more fiercely now.

With strength she didn't know she had, Sara struggled to her feet but had to lean against the wall to keep from falling.

"I'll be back soon," she said, praying it wasn't the last time she'd see Grissom alive.

Working her way slowly, Sara got to the cell door and through it. There were several identical cells around her, all with the doors standing open. She caught sight of Grissom's jacket on the floor of one of them. Directly across from her, she saw a cell that appeared to have been furnished as an office.

She stumbled across to it and collapsed in a chair at a desk. Searching the drawers, she found their cell phones, Grissom's and hers. Both had plenty of power and surprisingly strong signals considering their bunker location.

Sara used one – it turned out to be hers – to call 911.

"What's the nature of your emergency?" the operator asked.

"My name is Sara Sidle," she said. "I'm a crime scene investigator with the Clark County Sheriff's Office. Another CSI and I were kidnapped. We're badly hurt. We need help immediately. But I have no idea where we are."

"Leave your cell phone on, honey," the operator said in a calm voice. "We've already started triangulating your position."

"Please hurry. My friend is bleeding to death."

"We're closing in on your location. Units have been dispatched. Just don't hang up."

Sara felt dizzy and nauseous. She kept the phone to her ear but put her head on the desk. After a time – it must have been no more than a few seconds – she sat up and grabbed Grissom's phone. She punched in Brass's number. It went to voicemail. So she tried Catherine.

"Gil!" Catherine shrieked, seeing the caller ID. "Where are you?"

"It's not Gil, Catherine, it's Sara." Sara thought her voice more resembled a croak than human speech.

"Thank God you're alive!" Catherine said. "Where are you? Do you know where Gil is? Are you okay?"

"Stop! Cath, please just stop a second. We're both here, wherever here is. We're both hurt. Gil is in really bad shape. I'm on another phone with 911. Can you coordinate with them and get somebody here fast? Gil can't last. He's bleeding out."

"Stay calm, Sara. We're on our way."

"Oh, Catherine, one other thing. I just killed a man."

**xxxxxxx**

She wouldn't remember later how she managed it, but Sara made her way back to Grissom. She was still on the line with the 911 operator, who kept reassuring her. She had to get off her feet. She didn't sit down on the floor as much as she collapsed.

"We know approximately where you are, honey," the operator said. "Tell me when you can hear sirens."

Sara listened. She heard nothing but the rasping of Grissom's ragged breathing.

Then, faint, in the distance.

"I think I hear something now," Sara said.

"Tell me if they're getting louder."

"No … Wait, yes! A little, I think."

Or was it wishful thinking?

"Okay, the officers are telling me they don't see any sign of anybody where they're at. Should they be looking for a particular vehicle?"

Sara tried to remember the vehicle McCaskey was driving when he kidnapped her. It was a car. No, it was an SUV. She remembered it had a heavy black grille guard on the front. She told the operator.

"A Chevy Suburban, I think. The vehicle was silver. Or some sort of beige."

"Okay, honey, hold on."

The sirens were getting much louder now.

"Hold on, Gil," she whispered. "Stay with me."

But he was beyond hearing.


	9. Chapter 9

Same old, same old. I own nothing.

I'm afraid it gets sad here.

**xxxxxxx**

**Chapter 9.**

Grissom died on the way to the hospital.

His eyes struggled open once, and his lips moved. He took another ragged breath and then … nothing.

Paramedics shocked his heart twice, but the flatline wouldn't budge.

"Again," the woman with the paddles demanded. "300-J."

"Clear!"

Nothing.

"Again!" "Clear!"

Nothing.

The man opposite her, her supervisor, put his hand up.

"That's enough, Laura," he said. "Pronounce him. You did all you could."

"Once more, Charlie. Take it up to 360. Clear!"

The flatline jumped and then went flat again.

"Damn it!" she said.

"Pronounce him," he ordered.

"No. There was a response. Again. Clear!"

A heartbeat.

The supervisor turned off the defibrillator. Laura sagged back on her haunches and exhaled a long-held breath. Her chin sagged to her chest.

"Way to hang in," Charlie said.

"You talkin' to me," Laura said, "or the patient?"

**xxxxxxx**

Grissom died again, 90 minutes later, on the operating table at Desert Palm Hospital. This time doctors brought him back after five attempts.

The surgeon bent over him and resumed work.

"He's not going to make it," the doctor said. "That was his second exit today."

The anesthesiologist nodded. "He's drowning in his own blood. A drowning man dies the third time down."

**xxxxxxx**

The first wave of paramedics had spent all their efforts on Grissom, both out of the urgency of his situation and at Sara's insistence. Catherine arrived five minutes later, checked on Grissom and moved to Sara's side.

"My God, what did he do to you?" she said. It was a rhetorical question. Sara's injuries were obvious.

"I need to get something to put under your head," Catherine said.

"Next cell," Sara said in a whisper. "Grissom's jacket."

Catherine folded the leather coat, raised Sara's head gingerly and slid the makeshift pillow under her.

There was some excited conversation on the other side of the room. Sara tried to see what was happening. She couldn't turn. The pain in her head was too great. She grabbed Catherine's arm.

"What is it? Is Gil okay?"

"They're just getting him on a gurney," Catherine said, watching over her shoulder. "It's bad, Sara. You know that."

Sara raised a hand to her face and tried to hide the tears she couldn't stop this time.

**xxxxxxx**

The second group of paramedics assessed Sara. The team leader had to find his way through caked blood to get to her head wound and the gaping split over her cheekbone. Sara saw him glance at Catherine. The look on his face said he didn't like what he found. He checked her eyes, the reaction of her pupils to a pen light, and said she had a severe concussion – at best. It could be a skull fracture.

He looked at her abdomen and applied light pressure. "Badly bruised ribs," he said. "I don't feel anything broken."

"My back," Sara said.

They turned her, and she groaned.

"Oh, my God," Catherine said.

Sara grimaced again as the paramedic assessed the injury.

Det. Vartan, Nick and Warrick showed up just then, with David Phillips, the assistant coroner close behind.

They had time to talk briefly with Sara before the paramedics waved them off so they could get her out of there. As they wheeled Sara's gurney toward the door, Nick indicated to Catherine they needed to talk.

"Grissom died on the way to the hospital," Nick said.

The blood drained from Catherine's face.

Nick added quickly, "They got him back, but it took six rounds of defib. They'll be taking him to surgery right away. They're not even gonna try to stabilize him first. There's no time."

"This is so unfair," Catherine said. "What did they have, three happy days together?"

She glared down at McCaskey's lifeless body.

"Damn you to hell," she said.

**xxxxxxx**

The surgeon closed Grissom's incision and ripped off his latex gloves.

"I never thought he'd get this far," the doctor said. "But he's got a long way to go."

The resident assisting glanced at the monitors over Grissom's head. Blood pressure was rising toward barely acceptable. It had been nearly non-detectible when Grissom was wheeled into the OR. Respiration was still shallow and too slow. Heart rate was too fast – 107 beats a minute and irregular. "Anything you need the ICU staff to know?" the resident asked.

The surgeon finished writing orders on a chart and handed them to the resident. "I'll be down to brief in a bit. Right now, I've got to see his friends." The doctor started through the theater doors and stopped. "What the hell is going on in this city? This is the third cop we've had through here this week."

"And there's a fourth down in the ER now," the resident said.

The surgeon simply shook his head and pushed out of the room.

**xxxxxxx**

Catherine, Ecklie and Greg were in the surgical waiting room. All three of them jumped up when the surgeon, Dr. Richard Jennings, approached.

"He made it through the operation although his heart stopped again midway," Dr. Jennings said. "None of his vitals can be called satisfactory yet. He's not stable. We could still lose him very easily. One added danger at this point is pneumonia. It's common in cases like this, and Dr. Grissom doesn't have the strength to fight it. He barely has the strength to keep himself alive as it stands."

"What happened to him?" Ecklie said.

"Somebody tried very hard to stomp him to death," Jennings said. "Let me count the ways. He has seven broken ribs, one of which pierced his right lung. He has a lacerated liver, a lacerated left kidney and a damaged spleen. We might yet have to remove his spleen. No real loss there in the short term. His bone marrow would pick up the blood work, though when he gets to be 80 or so – _if_ he gets to be 80 or so – and his bone marrow begins to wear out, he could have some anemia issues. I am very worried about the liver and kidney damage. Especially the liver. I'll be honest. A lacerated liver can be a death sentence."

"Good grief," Ecklie said.

"I'm not done," Jennings said. "He also has severe head trauma – the extent of which hasn't been determined – and a cracked left orbital bone. Now I'm done."

"What can we do?" Catherine asked. Tears ran down her face.

"Nothing," Jennings said. "Absolutely nothing. Unless you'd like to go to the Red Cross and arrange to donate some blood. We've been through 19 pints with him, and we're probably not done."

He nodded and started to walk away, then turned back. "Have I been informed correctly that there's another CSI in the emergency room right now?"

"That's true," Ecklie said.

"You people ever consider another line of work?"

**xxxxxxx**

Ecklie and Catherine sat down again.

"Have you told Sara about Brass and Pat Shea?" he asked.

Catherine shook her head. "I don't think she's ready to hear any more bad news."

Ecklie sighed. "I want to look in on them. Why don't you take Brass and I'll take Shea, then we'll switch off."

As Catherine left ICU and headed to Brass's room, she wondered what percentage of the hospital's beds were occupied by law enforcement people. She dismissed the thought. She didn't want to know.

**xxxxxxx**

Brass was sitting up in a chair beside his bed. His left arm was encased in a cast from his wrist to a place above his shoulder. A dressing on the side of his head completed the medical ensemble.

"How're you doin', buddy," Catherine asked.

He looked profoundly sad. "I'm waiting for an update on Sara and Grissom," he said. "And color me scared to death. And you've been crying. I don't find that calming."

"Yeah," she said. "What's the last you heard?"

"That you found them, and that the only good thing about it was that one of them killed McCaskey. Apparently McCaskey did his best to kill them first."

Catherine filled in the blanks. She didn't pull any punches. Sara was in critical condition with a lacerated kidney and a skull fracture, among other things. Grissom's condition was too unstable to categorize. He probably wouldn't survive. When she finished, she saw that Brass's eyes had filled. Not surprising. Grissom was probably his best friend. And she had told him Grissom probably would die. Sara was like a daughter to him. And she had told him Sara was very badly hurt and might lose her fiancé. There was no way to put a good face on it.

"This ordeal cost the lives of two of my officers and now this," Brass said. He put a hand over his eyes but it couldn't stop the tears. "We failed in every way imaginable. I'm paying for it with a few broken bones and a concussion. The people I was supposed to protect, people I love, are paying for it with their lives."

Catherine moved next to him, went to her knees and took his hand.

"You did everything you could, Jim. In the end, that's all that can be asked of any of us."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10.**

Sara's hospital stay lasted 10 days. She needed surgery to repair her kidney and supervised rest to allow a hairline skull fracture to begin healing.

Brass was discharged two days after Sara and Grissom were found, as was Patrick Shea, whose wife had been at this side since the automotive ambush. They returned to Los Angeles after a brief conversation with Sara and a visit to Grissom's room in the ICU. Grissom was completely unresponsive, which tore Shea apart.

"Some bodyguard I am, huh?" he said to the silent patient. "Come back to us, Grissom. The world needs you. There's a wonderful, brave lady named Sara who needs you more. I'm headed home with Kit now. But when you're awake and feeling up to it, I'll come back and teach you how to play chess."

When that line got no reaction – Shea had defeated Grissom at chess only twice in their long rivalry – the L.A. CSI knew his friend had a long road ahead of him. Or a tragically short one.

Two days after the thoracic surgery to repair Grissom's ribs and lung, a renal specialist performed another surgery to repair his kidney, the same specialist who had worked on Sara.

Grissom's condition continued to deteriorate.

Two days later, Dr. Jennings reported that Grissom had lapsed into a coma.

"Doesn't the body do that sometimes to let itself heal?" Sara asked, desperate for an explanation that didn't point toward death. Catherine reached over and took Sara's hand. Sara was in acute pain but refused serious medication for it because she wanted to be alert to hear every news update on Grissom. The report that he was comatose wrenched a sob from her chest, which sent a shockwave through her kidney and laid a sledgehammer to her head. Catherine saw her pain and felt it as Sara clamped down on her hand.

"Yes," the surgeon said, "sometimes that happens. Sometimes we deliberately put a patient into a coma for that very reason. In this case, we didn't trigger it, and we have no idea how it will end."

"How long will he be this way?" Catherine asked. She spent hours at the hospital each day with Sara to be whatever comfort and distraction she could.

Jennings shook his head. "A day. A lifetime. Again, we just don't know. He might open his eyes tonight and be fine. Or he might never wake up. And I have to caution you that if he does come back, there's no guarantee he'll be the same person you knew. His heart stopped twice, periods when his brain got little or no oxygen. He nearly bled out before we got him to surgery, a long period when the brain was left oxygen-deficient."

Sara seemed unable to speak.

So Catherine asked, "Is there some way you can test for that?"

"Not until he's awake. I'm sorry."

**xxxxxxx**

Sara was allowed to go home 10 days after she was admitted. But she might as well have stayed in her hospital bed. She spent almost as much time in the building as a visitor as she had as a patient.

She couldn't drive, so Catherine would take her to the hospital every morning after shift, and Sara would take a cab home when the nurses finally forced her to leave.

Nick still had Hank, and he loved the dog, so Sara had no worries on that score. She knew she couldn't handle the big boxer yet and couldn't risk having him jump on her. Her bruises were beginning to turn yellowish brown. But she still suffered with a constant headache, and going to the bathroom caused excruciating pain. Doctors had assured her both symptoms would diminish, given time.

She had given the police a formal statement about the McCaskey experience while still in the hospital. Ecklie had come by the same day to report that McCaskey's two accomplices had been found dead, both with their throats slit. One was in a cheap motel room off The Strip, the other in a Suburban that had obvious collision damage and paint transfer from Brass's car.

"That guy didn't leave witnesses," he said.

The day she checked out, Brass came by to tell her Doc Robbins had concluded there was absolutely no need for a coroner's inquest, and the district attorney wasn't even considering a grand jury. Her actions against McCaskey were deemed justifiable. No surprise there.

"In fact," Brass said, "the D.A. asked me to thank you for killing the bastard."

Sara hadn't been amused. If it hadn't been for a stupid judicial screw-up, or a stupid appellate decision, she and Grissom wouldn't have been in that situation to begin with. They might even be married by now, making love in the shower every day.

"Doc Robbins also asked me to tell you what McCaskey's autopsy report would say. The mode of death is homicide. His only choice. There are only four possible modes: homicide, suicide, natural and accidental. Homicide is the only category that fits."

"I know that," Sara said. "It sure was no accident."

Brass smiled. "The cause of death is listed as myocardial infarct. The manner of death is blue plastic plate. Doc says he expects to be asked to write papers on that one."

"Better him than me."

**xxxxxxx**

There is no epiphany in coming out of a coma. No visits from angels, no bright colors, no amazing dreams.

The world is black, and then it isn't.

In Grissom's case, the process was slow. Black faded to dark grey. When the shift reached light grey, he became self-aware again, and in that awareness there was considerable pain. He tried to shift his body, but he couldn't move. Was he paralyzed? Restrained? What had happened to him?

He lay still, with his eyes closed, trying to remember.

Sara had come home. He recalled everything about that. The McCaskey threat thundered back, too, and he felt himself wince at the memories.

Had he been in a fire?

No. There had been a fire, but in a pickup truck. They thought McCaskey had burned Sara alive. But it wasn't Sara.

He remembered leaving the morgue with Brass and Shea. There had been an accident. Deliberate.

That's where his memories ended, for now. He realized he didn't know if Brass and Shea were dead or alive. That worried him.

He knew the human brain never sleeps. It has a tremendous capacity to absorb events within sensory range, even during very deep slumber, even in a coma. So whatever his body's condition, his brain continued processing other, fainter memories, more like gauzy impressions, really. He thought he remembered the voices of members of his team, concerned, encouraging.

And Sara. So many impressions of her voice, her touch. What had she said to him? He longed to remember, but he couldn't. He knew he kept trying to respond to her. And he kept failing. He thought maybe he had lived to hear her voice.

What had happened to him? Where was he?

Slowly and tentatively, he opened his eyes.

Dimly lit room. White. Tubes everywhere. Monitors everywhere. Something in his mouth, down his throat. A respirator?

He felt something move over his right hand and glanced down. A shock of long, dark brown hair. Sara! Sleeping on his hand. Settling her face against his skin. He saw her outstretched arm. He felt her hand lying lightly on his thigh.

He tried to say her name and realized quickly that wasn't going to happen around the respirator. He wanted so badly to see her face, to look into her eyes.

He tried to move his hand and found he could. He had only a limited range of motion, but as best he could he let his fingers brush her cheek.

She raised her head and turned to him. The joy he saw on her face was beyond description. She raised his hand to her lips and kissed him.

A solitary tear ran down her face.

**xxxxxxx**

Grissom was back.

Word spread through the graveyard shift like wildfire. It was a busy night for the CSIs, so they couldn't get to the hospital immediately, but Sara had told them not to even think about coming for a couple of days. There was too much the doctors had to do, including an assessment of possible brain damage.

They took Grissom off the respirator immediately, removed his feeding tube and unhooked some of his monitors. His catheter would have to stay for the time being, and Sara knew that had to be uncomfortable for him. He also would remain in the ICU for at least 12 hours, until doctors were confident he was able to function without the intensive-care oversight.

Dr. Jennings had left orders to be called if Grissom's condition changed and was at his bedside 47 minutes after Grissom woke up. He examined his patient and cautioned him that he would have difficulty talking for several days. The respirator had left his throat a raw mess.

"That's a very precise medical term, 'raw mess,'" Jennings said.

Grissom smiled and nodded weakly. Then Jennings left, and Sara and Grissom were alone.


	11. Chapter 11

This is the end of it, friends. I hope you enjoy it. I hope you enjoyed the whole story. Tomorrow I'll start posting the third one, called "Nightmare in Paradise." And it is. But at least I can give it a T rating. I think. I'll have to reread to be sure.

I'd love to know your reaction to this final installment. Thanks.

**Chapter 11.**

When Sara looked back to Grissom, he was frowning. With considerable effort, he raised his fingers to the medical dressing on the side of Sara's head. His expression said he was concerned and wanted to know what had happened to her.

"You don't remember?" she asked.

He shook his head slightly and squeezed his eyes shut as the movement created a red-hot haze in his vision.

Sara grimaced. She took Grissom's right hand in both of hers and began massaging. She saw him relax marginally. She knew Grissom would tire easily, so she told him only the barest facts about their experience with McCaskey and the nature of their injuries. She saw Grissom start to remember things. She moved one of her hands to his cheek.

"You took a lot more abuse that I did," she said, trailing her fingers down his face. He leaned into her touch. "If you hadn't been around to give him another target, I'm sure I'd be dead today."

His eyes started to close, and she let him sleep.

**xxxxxxx**

They woke him during the afternoon for an MRI. The next day they did the mental acuity testing. Nobody would tell Sara anything about the results except that it had been an ordeal for Grissom to answer questions.

On the third day after the coma broke, Grissom asked for water and tried again to speak. His voice was steady but raspy, and it was clear that talking remained painful.

"How long have I been here?" he said.

"Nineteen days," Sara said. "You were unconscious or in a coma for fifteen of them. You've had two surgeries. You have a lot to recover from. You're going to need physical and occupational therapy to get your strength and coordination back, and once they let you out of here, buster, I'm dragging your sorry ass to the gym every day."

He smiled. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," she said. "My headache's going away, but it still hurts like hell when I pee. You'll get to find out for yourself when they take the catheter out."

"Looking forward to that," he said. "Losing the catheter, I mean, not the pain."

They held hands and simply looked at one another, interrupted only when Dr. Jennings appeared.

"Look at you two," he said. "You look like two high school kids in love. I was, quite honestly, afraid we'd never get to this point. But we did, and that's good news, and I have more good news. Dr. Grissom, we cannot detect any sign of diminished mental capacity in you, and there is no intracranial bleeding or swelling. Your memories of the events that brought you here are mostly missing, but that's normal. It might even be a good thing, though you'll probably recover some of them in the next month or so. They might even come back to you in the form of nightmares. You _both_ need to be prepared for that.

"Otherwise, you're mending well. Your lungs are working at nearly full capacity and improving steadily. Your ribs will scream at you for a while, but they're wired, taped and healing. You're not going to like urinating for a week or so. Sara can tell you all about that, or maybe she already has. But your kidney and liver are healing just fine, and so is your spleen. Oh, ditto for that orbital bone, though there's nothing to be done for it except time. You both look beat all to hell, so people will be staring at you, but that won't last, either.

"Now we've got to get you out of bed. The physical therapist will be here in a few minutes to help you sit on the edge of the bed and move your legs. Tomorrow, you'll walk a few steps, and we'll work up from there. As soon as you can make it to the bathroom and back, we'll lose that catheter. I'm sure you'll agree that's a goal worth reaching. You'll be home in no time."

He patted Grissom's shoulder and left.

Grissom turned back to Sara, smiling a little, but the smile faded when he saw the tears in her eyes. He reached a hand to her, and she took it.

"I was so frightened," she said a moment later. "Before McCaskey showed up, we had those few days that taught me how happy we could be. I couldn't stand the idea that we'd never be there again."

"We're there again now," Grissom said.

Sara let her hand slide down the blanket until it lay between his legs.

"Not quite," she said and delighted to hear him laugh.

"I don't think I'm strong enough for that yet," he said.

"Dang," she replied, "what's keeping that therapist?"

She leaned in and kissed him. He found the strength to return the kiss.

"I sat here beside you every day for two weeks," Sara said. "I kept begging you to come back to me, and it broke my heart when you didn't respond, even though I knew you couldn't."

"I did hear you," he said. "And I'm pretty sure you're the reason I got back."

"Where were you all that time, Gil? Do you remember?"

He raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm pretty sure I was standing on the edge of forever."

#


End file.
